


in occupied country

by sinequanon



Series: telling tales [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghosts, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: When Chris and Peter tracked Stiles across the Wall and back to his childhood home, they never expected for his tales about evil trees and dead children to be true.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely based on the German fairytale “Godfather Death”.
> 
> I'm going to have to ask you to give this story a little leeway--it had a bit of an identity crisis, and I'm not sure how it turned out. It wasn't originally supposed to be a fairytale fic at all, but I’d gotten a thousand words into it before I decided I didn't like my original idea and I had to set it aside for a few months. Adding the fairytale aspect took me down a different (and probably better) path than I had originally planned, but I still feel like this story could have been a longer, cooler horror story had I not let my frustrations get the best of me.
> 
> This one was difficult to tag, so let me know if there's anything I need to add.
> 
> Happy reading!

They found him locked away in a place called Eichen House, well-hidden from those who were searching for him. The asylum smelled strongly of chemicals and death, and neither man could imagine how someone like Stiles could ever end up there.

Why come home to such a place when he could have remained protected in the palace? Why run away from the two of them for _this_? Chris thought it was an especially horrible fate for someone like Stiles, staring at the same four walls every day without true interaction or stimulation, trapped with nothing but his thoughts to entertain him.

True, everyone in the palace had long assumed Stiles was at least slightly mad--talking incessantly about evil trees and imaginary friends; as it turned out, they were simply not knowledgeable enough about life on the other side of the Wall to recognize the the parallel to Stiles’s own experiences. Those in the palace had assumed that his ramblings were the product of his humanity trying to cope with the presence of the supernatural, and had treated him accordingly. Yet even as a young child trapped on the wrong side of the Wall, he had never been violent or cruel, but rather kind and curious, and he had ultimately become well-loved by many people in Beacon.

For all that he was human, Stiles had grown up as a ward of the Hales; it had been impossible for people not to know him, at least a little. There were some that still regarded the young man with suspicion, but regardless of their opinions on humans, Chris knew that no one would have wanted this for him.

Peter was already fighting the change simply walking the length of this awful place, and they hadn't even made it to the wing where these people masquerading as physicians had locked away their runaway human.

“...he spent a lot of time on the other side of the Wall,” the orderly was saying, “so we wanted to make sure that he was properly purified…”

“Purified?” Peter bit out. He was infinitely glad for Chris’s hand on his arm, because killing this man and outing himself as a werewolf in human territory was a horrible idea.

Not to mention, if they lost track of Stiles again, Chris doubted they’d find him a second time. Alive, at least.

“Yes, there are any number of diseases or infections that he could have carried over from those monsters, not to mention potential psychological trauma. We do our best to help survivors adjust to their new surroundings.”

The idea that Stiles had been infected with anything from Beacon was ludicrous--the first time that Stiles had gotten the flu had scared Talia so badly that she had almost cancelled a state dinner for fear that visitors would somehow make him worse--but Peter couldn't say that, not without giving himself away.

“You’re sure you want to take him now?” the orderly asked, stopping at a room near the end of what had felt like a never-ending hallway. “He still needs a lot of care, and from what you said--”

“My father would be horrified if I left my cousin here without any family to care for him,” Chris said shortly. “It's my duty to see that he’s looked after.”

The man made a face like he couldn't understand why anyone would want to go to the trouble of caring, but he shrugged. “All right. You can look him over while I do the paperwork, in case you change your mind,” the orderly said, unlocking the door and stepping aside.

The two men waited until their escort had rounded the corner before turning back to the room and stepping inside.

It was a good thing that Talia wasn’t there, because there was no way she wouldn't have violently reacted to the sight before them. Chris suspected that Peter was too shocked to move, frozen in place as he was just inside the door.

The hunter wasn't entirely sure how _he_ managed to step forward, just that he was at the door one moment and then undoing Stiles’s restraints the next. He made a noise low in his throat at the sight of the younger man's heavily bruised wrists and ankles, but didn't dare look closer at the rest of him for fear of Peter’s (or his own) reaction.

There would be time for treating injuries and plotting revenge when they made it back to Beacon.

<> <>

Peter didn’t move from the door, but his eyes glowed brightly as he watched Chris attend to the unconscious man before him. He couldn't help but think that _this_ Stiles--silent, still, and sick--was not the Stiles that had won over a palace of vain and pompous supernaturals.

This was not the same young man who, at ten years old, had suddenly appeared outside of the palace gates, having followed the Guards’ hellhounds home. _That_ Stiles had laughed joyfully as the hounds had carefully herded the child to the gate, snapping at anyone who came to close to the boy. One of the notoriously temperamental hounds had accompanied Stiles all the way to the throne room, amicably bumping up against the child the entire way, much to the shock of everyone they passed.

Ten-year-old Stiles had stood before the court, dirty but calm, while the room marveled at the small human in their presence. Everyone had watched as Stiles and Queen Talia silently took each other's mettle before the boy gave the room a slight smile and began with the first of his many non-sequiturs, “Did you know that hummingbirds have no sense of smell?”

“Do you know who I am?” Talia countered, after a startled beat of silence.

The hound that had entered the room with Stiles bumped his head against the boy’s hip, and he shrugged. “I assume you're the Queen, considering the crown and all, but maybe you just like dressing up, so…”

“Why are you here, human child?”

“I dunno.”

“Where are your parents?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you a spy, little boy?” King Michael asked then, not unkindly.

Stiles barely blinked. “Did you know that in the 1800s, a monkey was put on trial in England and executed for being a French spy?”

“What?”

“His ship wrecked, and he was the only survivor.” He paused, and gave another half-shrug. “For a little while, anyway.”

The entire court watched the boy fidget for a few moments before Talia's gaze softened into something more concerned. “Did you mean to come here, child?”

Another shrug. “No, not really. But I'm here, so I was probably supposed to be, right? I can't go home yet.”

Shortly thereafter, the Hale matriarch fell in love with the odd human boy and offered him a home. People quickly got used to the boy’s strange questions and observations, and so dismissed Stiles’s ever-watchful eyes and forgot that the boy didn’t truly belong to them. No one ever considered that Stiles would return to the human world until the day he sat down at dinner and announced that he was leaving.

“There's something that has to be done,” he'd replied, when Peter had pushed him for reasons. “But in the meantime, you should get to know Lord Chris better.”

Stiles had vanished the next day, and the Hales immediately started searching for him, only to find out that he had crossed the Wall. The Hales, hands tied, had turned to Lord Chris for help which, on consideration, had likely been Stiles’s goal. For eight months, Chris and Peter had searched for the crown’s ward, and now…

This Stiles needed help in a way that the younger, seemingly fearless Stiles never had; or perhaps, Peter worried as he watched Chris, this Stiles was the true one, hiding behind the persona of strangeness that he presented to the world.

When they made it home, Peter was going to take as long as he needed to find out the truth.

He stepped forward.

<> <>

If Chris ever came to this side of the Wall again, he was going to raze this town to the ground. If the look on Peter’s face as he carried Stiles into their hotel room was any indication, the wolf would be happy to help him.

Stiles’s head listed to one side against the wolf's chest, and his eyes fluttered, and Peter held him tighter. "Hey, stay with me,” the man coaxed.

“Stiles, can you hear us?” Chris asked.

“I’m fine, I just…” Stiles stopped, eyes going unfocused, and Peter shook him a little. “I just…Lydia,” he whispered, just lowly enough that the men couldn't make out the last word.

“Why did you leave?” Peter demanded. “Why did you come here? Was Beacon not enough for you? Was _I_ \--”

“How did you end up in Eichen House?” Chris interrupted before Peter could get any more upset.

“Nevermind that,” Peter snapped, glaring at Chris despite the fact that he had been shaking Stiles moments before, and readjusting the human in his arms. “You can tell us when we get home.”

Stiles jolted at those words, and seemed to actually focus on them for the first time since his rescue. “I see you took my advice,” he mumbled, looking back and forth between the two men. Then, a heartbeat later, “Sorry, but I can't go; I’m not done yet.”

<> <>

Allowing himself to be taken to Eichen House might have been the height of stupidity, but it was the only way that Stiles could think of to find Lydia, short of wandering around town and randomly knocking on people's doors, which was arguably even more dangerous than staying in the asylum. The drugs they gave him made him disoriented and weak, yes, but they also made it easier for him to see the spirits of their friends, one of whom would undoubtedly lead him to Lydia as soon as they figured out how to manifest for more than a few seconds at a time.

Plus, it wasn't as if he hadn't endured this type of treatment before; the confines of Eichen House were all too familiar.

He and Heather had almost managed to touch each other the last time he had gone under, and he was certain that with a little more experimentation they would finally be able to make physical contact. Erica and Boyd were almost as good at manifesting as Heather, and even Isaac was getting better at maintaining solidity. Stiles was confident that if he managed to help Heather touch the living, he could help the others as well, and then they could all have their revenge against the town that had abandoned them to all-but-certain death.

It was unfortunate that Peter and Chris had come to rescue him when they had, because now they were convinced that he was some sort of damsel in distress that needed saving, especially considering his lack of lucidity when they found him.

Granted, it would be nice to sit back and let his potential paramours save him, but Stiles had neither the time nor the inclination to explain the severity of the situation to them. Instead, he needed to find Lydia, or Jordan, or Scott as quickly as possible before Deaton tried to use the nemeton again.

Unfortunately, Peter must have been able to sense his uneasiness, because the two men refused to leave his side while the drugs worked their way out of his system. If either man noticed how little time it took for Stiles to recover, though, neither one of them mentioned it. Instead, they watched him with sideways glances like they expected him to try and sneak away in the night.

Which, of course, was exactly what he did after Stiles saved up enough valerian root to drug his suitors into unconsciousness. Hopefully, they would forgive him. Eventually.

Since returning to Eichen House was no longer an option, Stiles was going to have to seek outside assistance with this part of the plan. He even knew who to ask, even if asking this particular person for anything was usually a bad idea.

<> <>

Stiles waited until dusk to begin his trek to Marin’s house, keeping his hood up to obscure his face while moving as nonchalantly as possible to try and avoid detection.

No doubt, he should have brought a gift to the witch in exchange for her help, but he wasn't feeling particularly generous at the moment, and no gift would change her mind if she _wasn't_ willing to help him. Thankfully, Marin let him in without comment, remaining silent until Stiles was properly settled in the living room.

“You should be more careful in town,” she admonished lightly.

“What are they going to do?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Tie me to a tree until Deaton wakes up? They won't kill me because they know I'm a guaranteed sacrifice, and even the idiots around here would know better than to risk their own children just because they don't like me.”

“Even so,” she said, “I think your friends would be rather disappointed if you were needlessly hurt, don't you?”

Stiles huffed, but didn't bother arguing. “Look. You know why I'm here, so are you going to help me or not?” He frowned at her, slightly uncomfortable with her agreeable disposition. He trusted Marin as much as he trusted anyone in this town, but he didn't dare let himself relax in her home.

“You’re not the one that’s meant to be helping Heather and the others, you know that.”

“That’s not the point. No one else is going to help them.” If that meant that he needed to be drugged out of his mind for hours at a time so that he could play medium, so be it. Even after all of these years, he still couldn't understand why Parrish had chosen to send _him_ across the Wall all those years ago. Lydia, he could understand because of her connection to the spirits, but why not Scott? Surely Scott had deserved to escape from this town more than Stiles--

Marin pinned him with a knowing look that had him squirming in his seat. “What about Christopher Argent, or Peter Hale?”

“What?” he squawked.

The witch quirked her lips at him, but said evenly, “Do you honestly believe that Heather, or Erica, or any of your other friends would want you to deny yourself the chance to live? They will get their vengeance, Stiles, I promise you, but you have to survive to be able to give it to them. I'll help you, of course, but I doubt you will thank me for it.”

Stiles understood. Magic always came with a price.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something markedly different about this town of Stiles's, even more so than other human towns that they had visited in the course of their search. People of the Hills were polite, and friendly enough, but in a forced sort of way that made Chris think that they were simply going through the motions of living rather than responding with any sort of actual sentiment.

It wasn't until Stiles had run away from them, though, that the pair had the opportunity to realize how different the town was, especially compared to those on the other side of the Wall.

Namely, this town seemed to have almost no children. The ones that it did have seemed drawn and strangely cautious, and much more reserved than ordinary children, like they were constantly waiting for something horrible to come and steal them away in the middle of the night.

The children of the Hills stared at Peter and Chris with huge, wary eyes, as if they could see both the wolf hiding beneath Peter’s skin and the hunter lurking in Chris’s heart. There were many dangers in exposing oneself as magical on this side of the Wall, and Peter tried unsuccessfully to appear harmless and genial to everyone they met. Unfortunately, Chris appeared as equally as dangerous as his partner, and most in the people in the town went out of the way to avoid them.

It made the pair wonder if this oppressive foreboding had existed before Stiles had come to them and, if so, if that was why Stiles had crossed the Wall in the first place. It also made them wonder what on earth could have compelled him to return to such a horrid place.

After a day of fruitless searching, the two men forced themselves to stop for a quick meal in a tiny bar near the edge of town. The place was empty, and the bartender watched them far too knowingly for Peter’s comfort, but he was far more friendly than the rest of the town had been thus far. He gave them space to eat in peace, and only wandered over to speak to them when he cleared their plates.

“This town is not the place for your kind,” he said, eyeing Peter suspiciously, “let alone for those of noble blood such as yourselves.”

Both men blinked at him. “Excuse me?” Peter asked, nonplussed.

“What purpose could Queen Talia possibly have in sending one of her wolves to our little hellhole?”

Chris opened his mouth to argue that the town wasn’t so bad, but shut it again with a click when Peter’s claws accidentally scratched his arm. “What--”

“I don’t know how you found out about the nemeton, and I don't care, as long as you save those kids,” the bartender scoffed. “There’s only so much their ‘imaginary friends’ can do for them, after all, even in a place like this.”

The duo exchanged confused glances. The man wasn’t phased by Peter being a wolf, but was concerned about the town’s so-called imaginary friends?

“What's wrong with children having imaginary friends?” Chris asked. Even Allison had had an invisible playmate, once upon a time.

“Nothing, except they aren’t imaginary,” the man said, wiping down the bar. He pinned them with a long, searching look. “Have you ever heard the tale of Godfather Death?”

“Should we have?” Peter asked.

The bartender put his cloth aside and turned back to them. “It's an old fairytale, largely forgotten, about a man who ran himself ragged caring for his twelve children. When his thirteenth was born, the man couldn't care for the baby and didn't know where to turn for help. In desperation, he went into the woods where he met God, and then the Devil, who both volunteered to sponsor the boy. The man turned them both down, and eventually accepted Death as the godfather of his youngest child. After the boy grew up, Death took the young man into the woods, and told him that he was to become a doctor. Death told him, ‘If you are called to a sick person and see that I am standing at his head, let him drink from your flask, and he soon will regain his health. But if I am standing at his feet, I will soon take him; you must not cure him.’ The young man does what he is told until one day he falls in love and then, depending on the version of the tale, he either breaks the rules for his love or another member of her family, and finds his own life cut short.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Chris asked dubiously, exchanging another glance his wolf.

“About forty years ago, not long after most of you supernaturals retreated behind your wall, a man came to town. He was as powerful as he was mysterious, and he said that he was here to protect the children from a deadly threat that your kind had left behind. He said that he would watch over them, and help them as they grew, and the only thing he asked in return was a sacrifice.”

“Surely you didn't believe him,” Peter scoffed. After all, everyone knew that the magic had fled from this side of the wall in the great migration.

The bartender gave them a look that said he knew what they were thinking, and that he regretted ever speaking to such idiots. “Magic is in more than just people, you know,” he pointed out.

“Even so,” Peter argued, “no sane person would sacrifice one child to save another.”

“Not at first, no,” the man admitted, face turned into harsh lines. “But he started stealing little ones--four, five, six-years-old; he killed ten children before his sister came and trapped him in the nemeton.”

Peter's stomach dropped at the angry man's words. “The tree is _active_?”

It was one thing to have a sleeping nemeton in the area; it was entirely different if it was awake and craving power. Suddenly, Stiles’s talk of evil trees made much more sense, and the wolf wondered if he had been friends with someone who was sacrificed?

“Like I said, magic is in more than just people. Anyway, ten years later, the man escaped his prison and started killing children all over again. This time, he managed to kill eleven people--including a councilman’s daughter--before some of the townspeople banded together to trap the man again.” He scoffed. “After that, people started suggesting that if Deaton came back a third time, they should just let him have his pick of the kids in the town orphanage.”

“Excuse me?” the wolf’s voice came out as a growl.

“Everyone ignored the idea until he came back again, ten years later. The Mayor threw his money around, and people were scared,” his voice hardened, and something inhuman flashed through his eyes so fast that Chris wasn't completely sure he’d seen it at all, “and so they told him to just take the orphans.” He snorted into his drink. “Unfortunately for Mayor Polk and the City Council, the kids at the orphanage were tougher than those cowards, and fought back and eventually subdued him themselves.”

“All those imaginary friends?” Chris asked, trying to put the pieces of the man’s story together.

“Not entirely. The kid you’re looking for, Stiles? He--”

Peter goggled, and Chris nearly spit out his drink. “How did you know that?”

“He and two other orphans escaped last time,” the bartender continued, ignoring the question. “Deaton’s coming for them. If you want to find Stiles, you need to find Lydia. Or, since that’s unlikely, even for men of your caliber, find Marin Morrell.” He took advantage of their momentary shock and all but manhandled them from their seats to push them out the door. “You gentlemen have a nice afternoon, now.”

<> <>

Finding Marin Morrell turned out to be much easier than anticipated; so much so that the pair briefly worried that the woman who lured them to her home was not the witch at all, but some other sort of monster that had stayed behind in the human world instead of crossing the wall all those years ago.

(Suddenly, there seemed to be no end of them in this tiny town, and the blatant disregard for the laws of Beacon was as definitely something to speak to Talia about when they got home.)

The witch had taken one look at the two of them and, with an irritating smirk on her face, had blandly told them that if they wanted to see Stiles, they would need to come back on Tuesday, and then slammed the door in their faces.

It was currently Thursday.

Undeterred, the duo had continued to pound on the door for almost an hour until a young man in a deputy’s uniform showed up to escort them off the property.

“You’d be wise to do whatever she told you,” he advised mildly as he directed them into his car.

“Our...friend is missing, and she had the gall to tell us to return in nearly a week,” Peter snarled.

Deputy Parrish stared at them, much like the bartender had done, and then laughed. “Stiles said that the two of you would likely be trouble.”

“What?” the wolf yelled.

“Stiles and Lydia are holed up right now, concocting undoubtedly nefarious and dangerous plans for keeping Scott safe and beating Deaton again.”

“Can you take us to him?” Chris requested, at the same time Peter asked, “How did they escape the last time?”

The thought of Stiles fighting against a madman--especially a magical one--made both of them eager to find and eliminate the threat.

Parrish locked eyes with them in the rearview mirror. “I knocked him out and threw him over the Wall,” he said flatly. “We broke the cycle, and it saved Scott and Lydia, too. I knew that Stiles would be able to take care of himself,” he sighed, “though I should have known he’d come back to help them. All of them.”

The men gaped at each other, and then at the deputy, who shrugged. “I'm surprised he didn't try to climb back over before now. Look, if you really want to see Stiles--”

There was a sudden clap of thunder in the cloudless sky that reverberated heavily through the everyone's bones, and Parrish slammed on the brakes just as a huge tree fell into their path.

“Damn it!”

The car screeched to a halt inches from the hazard, and all three men took a few seconds to get their bearings.

“What the hell was that?” Chris asked finally.

The deputy looked grim. “That was Deaton waking up. It's started.”

“Take us to Stiles,” the wolf demanded, not bothering anymore to hide his nature. If Parrish was threatened by the display, however, he gave no indication, turning his attention back to the road.

“Not yet,” the man said, putting the car in drive.

<> <>

“I can't believe you, Stiles!” Lydia fumed. “Who knows what she did to you?”

Lydia and Scott had both been reluctant to let their friend out of their sights the last few days--after Lydia had punched him for checking himself into Eichen House, of course. Scott had settled for using the disappointed eyes that he knew Stiles had never built up an immunity to to make his feelings on his friend's reckless behavior known. It was awkward for a few seconds, but Stiles had missed them as much as they had missed him, so he put up with the reproach and near-smothering with mostly good humor.

 _Well, for one, Marin made it so that I don't have to be drugged out of my mind to speak with our friends_ , Stiles thought drily, though he would never in a million years ever _say_ that to Lydia. “Now you don't have to do all of the work when it comes to working with the others. I know that maintaining the connection is still hard for you, and now you don't have to handle it alone.”

“We both know that you’d never hurt Stiles on purpose,” Scott interjected, watching his friends carefully. Lydia had started pacing ten minutes ago (which was never a good sign), and Stiles had the stubborn look in his eyes that his best friend knew all too well. A second later, Scott noticed the teddy bear in the corner roll its eyes and wondered how many extra people were watching their argument.

“Of course I'd never hurt Stiles on purpose,” Lydia hissed, “the point is that I still can't control my powers. Ten years, Scott!” She whirled back toward Stiles with a glare. “Ten years I've been trying to understand what I am. What if being exposed to my powers hurts you? We have no idea what Morrell was even thinking when she gave you your powers!”

“She didn't give me powers,” Stiles soothed, pulling his distraught friend into his arms and running his fingers through her hair. “I can see spirits, that's all. It doesn't have anything to do with your banshee-ness.”

“Is anybody here, now?” Scott asked, glancing briefly back at the bear. “We need to make some sort of plan.”

Stiles glanced around the room. “Boyd's hanging out in the corner,” he said, nodding to the other boy, “and Liam just walked into the bedroom.”

“What about Malia?” Lydia asked. Malia and Stiles had been close, even after her death, and it had irritated the spirit to no end that she hadn't been able to follow him across the Wall. She’d practically been Stiles’s shadow since he’d returned home.

“I think she and Danny are watching out for the Carver twins,” Scott offered. “Who knows what kind of power boost Deaton would get if he took them?”

“He's not going to get that far,” Stiles promised. He picked up the first book in Lydia's pile. “We're going to get rid of the nemeton, and Heather and the others will get rid of Deaton. Then we'll all be free.”

The need for vengeance was the main reason the other orphans were still around, watching out for the next group of potential sacrifices, notwithstanding their attachment to their three living friends. It had been difficult to coordinate among them (see Stiles's brief and mostly voluntary stay in Eichen House), but ultimately, the tasks had been divided with Scott, Stiles, and Lydia’s killing the tree, and the others taking their revenge on Deaton. All previous efforts to kill the nemeton over the last decade had failed, but the trio was hopeful that the presence of all three of them would make a difference this time.

“How do we do that?” Scott asked.

Lydia suddenly smirked. “We're going to ask Stiles's boyfriends for help.”

“What?” Stiles squawked, not unlike the last time someone had mentioned the pair. “They're aren't...it's not…”

“Stiles, they followed you across the Wall--”

“Which is illegal,” Scott broke in.

“--are risking being caught as supernaturals--”

“Also illegal,” Scott added.

“--and they broke you out of Eichen House,” Lydia finished with a glare and hair flip combination that told Stiles exactly how big of an idiot she thought he was for denying the obvious.

Scott smiled and gave his friend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “The last one is definitely illegal, too. If you want my opinion, dude, I think they like you.”

Stiles scowled at his friends. “Look, it doesn't matter. I'm not leaving you guys again. End of story.” He set a book in front of his best friend with a thunk. “Let's just find a way to get rid of that tree, okay?”

<> <>

Hours later, Stiles and the others still had no idea how to get rid of the nemeton. They already knew that it couldn't be destroyed by regular means--multiple people had tried setting it on fire, poisoning it, or even digging it up over the years--to no avail. Furthermore, the handful of supernatural denizens of Beacon Hills were understandably hesitant to put their necks out for the rest of the town's less-than-friendly residents.

Honestly, Scott was surprised that any of them had stuck around. He would've left town ages ago and drug Stiles and Lydia with him if he was willing to leave the rest of this place to its fate. Unfortunately, the three of them had been fighting for too long to back down now, and Scott had a strange feeling that he and his friends were the only ones who could defeat Godfather Death, anyway.

It didn't mean that he didn't hate putting his friends in danger, though.

He hoped that Lydia was right, and that these two men who had come after Stiles were willing to fight for him, because Scott had a feeling that they were going to need all the magical help they could get.

He glanced over at Stiles, who had fallen asleep mid-paragraph a couple of hours ago, and thought about everything they had gone through over the years. Being on the other side of the Wall had obviously been good for his best friend and, no matter what, Scott was going to make sure that Stiles didn't get stuck in this nowhere place after everything was over, even if he had to throw Stiles back over the Wall himself.

Scott had just decided to try and coax his friend over to the bed for a few hours when the door flew open and hit the wall with a loud thump that had both Stiles and Lydia jumping awake.

“There’s been a murder,” Parrish said solemnly to Scott as he stepped in behind two men that could only be Peter and Chris. “They were with me when it happened,” he added, nodding at the pair who were looking around the drab, spartan room with distaste before zeroing in on Stiles.

Scott barely held back a laugh as the two men ignored Stiles’s disgruntled outrage and all but carried him toward the bed. For her part, Lydia simply caught eyes with Parrish, who nodded, and turned back over to fall asleep again.

“What are you...get off...I have research to do--” Stiles complained.

“We'll be taking over your research,” one of them said--Peter, Scott guessed, by the lack of gun--and your friend over there can help us.”

Soon enough, Stiles was asleep again and Scott was pinned by the calculating stares of Chris Argent and Peter Hale.

 _Great_.

“Tell us everything you know.”

<> <>

“I don't know about you, but I'm tempted to simply lock the three of them in a closet and go rip this man's throat out,” Peter said lightly. Scott had finally drifted off after an hour of exchanging information, joining his friends in a much-needed rest while Chris and Peter had continued to search for solutions to their current problem.

“Honestly, these children are living like fugitives,” Peter added when Chris just grunted at him. “Forget Eichen House, we should level this entire town; we’d be doing the world a favor. We’ll take Scott and Lydia with us, of course.”

“The problem is that no one on our side would be willing to come across and do a cleansing, and Stiles and the others won't just walk away.” Chris pushed away from the table and ran his hand over his face in exhaustion. “I don't think we're going to find a way to neutralize the nemeton; the best we can do for now is get rid of Deaton and hope that something worse doesn't come along.”

Peter sighed and glanced at the trio in the corner. “I wish we knew for certain that these ghost children could hold up their end of the bargain; I hate the thought of using Stiles like this.”

Because Scott could explain it however he wanted to: the fact of the matter was, he, Lydia, and Stiles were acting as bait so that their _dead_ _friends_ could get their revenge against the man who had murdered them.

<> <>

The next day, the news came that a second child had already been sacrificed; this time, from the next town over.

The werewolf and the hunter woke Stiles and the others to deliver the news. Scott paled, Stiles swore, and Lydia grabbed Stiles’s hand and asked him to point the child out.

“He's not here, Lydia,” Stiles said after a minute. “He's already moved on.” He paused. “Everyone else is here, though.”

“Excellent,” Peter chirped, gesturing to the room-at-large. “Because I'd like to announce that as soon as this endeavor is finished, Chris and I will be taking our Stiles back home with us. Anyone else who wishes to accompany him may do so, but Stiles will be coming with us even if I have to carry him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”

“Hey! What if I want to stay here?” Stiles argued.

The werewolf scoffed. “Then those drugs did more damage to your brain than we thought; even more reason for us to take you away.” Peter exchanged a look with the hunter and then turned to stare at Stiles. “By the way, the three of us will be having a long conversation about your abysmal choices in the near future.”

Stiles opened his mouth to retort, only to pale and stagger at the sudden appearance of _five_ new spirits. “What--”

“He was just suddenly standing in the road,” one of them offered. “We swerved to miss him.”

“And then we were somewhere else,” a second teenager added. “I could see the sunlight through the trees, and then--”

“It hurt,” the third one said.

“Stiles?” Scott asked, drawing his friend’s gaze away from the new spirits.

“There’s been more deaths,” he said flatly. “Outside of town. We have to draw him here.”

Lydia arched a brow at him. “With what?”

Stiles turned and pushed the book that he was reading toward the center of the table. “A summoning circle.” He grimaced. “The only problem is, we’ll need fresh blood to keep it active, and there's only so much we can pony up ourselves before we lose consciousness.”

“It's a good thing you have a werewolf with you, then,” Peter said, gripping the younger man’s arm possessively which he opened his mouth to argue. “I can take much more abuse than the average human.”

Chris, who had been studying the information on the circle, put a hint of a plea in his eyes. “Let us help you, Stiles. Please.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, glaring first at Chris, then Peter. “Let’s just get this over with.”

<> <>

Stiles _hated_ this plan. He hated it. A group of drunk pixies could have come up with a better plan than, “cut Peter open and start drawing on the floor in blood”. Not that Stiles and Lydia’s simple “let ghosts attack” approach was much better, but at least it didn't involve actually cutting someone open. Of course, Scott, Lydia, and Stiles would all still have to donate some blood--the circle was meant to draw Deaton to _them_ , after all--but Stiles didn't entirely trust that Chris wouldn't take the hilt of the knife and knock them all out instead of cutting them.

(No matter how many times they tried to explain, the older man just didn't seem willing to understand that Stiles and his friends needed to see Deaton dead for themselves. The hunter's obvious concern would have been touching if it hadn't been so frustrating.)

“...as soon as he’s inside the others will attack him,” Lydia was saying, drawing Stiles’s attention back to the conversation at hand. Scott may have made everyone take a break for dinner, but it hadn't stopped the strategizing.

“No offense, but how do you know that your friends will be here?” Chris asked skeptically, not bothering to look away from Lydia as he stole the last egg roll from Peter.

A cabinet started shaking violently in the corner, drawing everyone's attention. Lydia smirked.

“They’ll be here,” she assured them.

<> <>

Peter's head swam with the scent of copper as Chris made yet another cut into the wolf’s arm. He could hear the muted sounds of fighting in the distance, and someone (probably Scott) yell, but the hunter pushed him down when he tried to move.

“They're clever enough, they'll be fine,” Chris assured him. “They're buying us time.”

Peter wanted to ask him to clarify, but then he remembered how they had planned to mix the ink with blood so that Peter could still fight, only to have Deaton show up before the circle was finished. Chris and Peter were now trying to finish the trap with strictly blood, which was not doing the werewolf any favors.

Peter groaned and forced his eyes open, watching wisps of color flutter in and out of the corners of his vision and cursing blood loss for his less than coherent thoughts.

Despite the present circumstances, it was a good thing that Peter and Chris had found Stiles and his friends, because there would have been no way that the young ones could have both powered the circle and fought at the same time. Although he was weak at the moment, there was little that this Deaton could do to irrevocably harm Peter; the same could not be said for Stiles and his friends.

“Almost finished,” Chris warned, as he cut yet another slice into Peter and dug his fingers into the wound. He moved away just long enough to finish the symbols on the floor before hauling Peter back to a relatively safe corner with a grunt. “I'm going to go help the others. Stay down.”

Still a bit too dizzy to argue, Peter watched as Chris vanished before letting his eyes flutter shut. Who would have thought that one human boy would bring him so much trouble? He didn't mind, of course, but he never would have guessed that his affections for Stiles would have lead him to such a place.

Although, knowing Stiles, he probably should have.

There was a scream, and the sound of gunfire, and then the door flew open of its own accord and a dark-skinned man was propelled toward the circle, viciously spewing curses the whole way. As soon as the first part of his body triggered the trap, the man started bucking up into whatever invisible arms held him, only for Scott to burst through the door moments later and shove the man the rest of the way into the circle.

Peter watched as Scott stood there, chest heaving, as Deaton tested the walls of his prison.

“This isn't capable of holding me forever,” the man said mildly.

“It doesn't have to hold you forever,” Scott remarked, turning as a bloodied Lydia and Stiles staggered in with Chris at their heels. Peter wanted to go to them, but he was still having trouble focusing, if the colors flitting once again through his peripheral vision were any indication.

If being in the circle was uncomfortable, Deaton gave no indication of it. “You can't kill me,” he said confidently.

“You're right,” Lydia agreed with a smirk. She and Stiles stepped forward to Scott, and grabbed each boy’s hand as multiple things in the room started to shake. “But they can.”

All at once, the colors that Peter had ignored as hallucinations coalesced into children who surrounded the circle with hungry looks on their faces.

Including Stiles, Scott, and Lydia, there were thirteen in all.

Deaton sneered at them, though he hesitated, briefly, at the faces of former victims. “As long as the nemeton is here, others will come.”

As one, the trio shrugged. “At first, we wanted to kill the nemeton, to keep other people like you from coming here--” Lydia began nonchalantly.

“--but we decided that any town that would sacrifice its children wasn't worth saving,” Stiles finished flatly.

“They can deal with the tree,” Scott said. “But we're going to make sure you never hurt another child.”

With a nod, the three living children moved back, and, as soon as they were clear, the others began stepping into the circle and reaching for their murderer.

The screaming began almost immediately.

<> <>

Hours later, after Deaton was nothing but ash and dust, Chris and Peter guided the trio back into the house to get clean and eat, and only after both of those were done did Peter bring up the palace.

Lydia, Scott, and Stiles had one of those wordless conversations that--even on such short acquaintance--made Peter perk up with anticipation and Chris roll his eyes before they all turned to the pair wearing identical grins.

The other side of the Wall would never be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the poem “Empire of Dreams” by Charles Simic.
> 
> Next week: a Peter/Stiles crossover fic (with no vampires or superheroes in sight!) and a tiny Bleach story.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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